Heal me
by superdoodlesmaximum
Summary: At the age of twenty two Edward Elric has lost it all. The same disease that stole his mother away from him and his younger brother has now stolen his beloved wife and children. Destroyed by the greatest loss of his life, Edward heads farther west than ever boy. Not looking for way to bring back of family but a way to cure the ache in his soul. But will this cure be a new science,
1. Chapter 1

At the age of twenty two Edward Elric has lost it all. The same disease that stole his mother away from him and his younger brother has now stolen his beloved wife and children. Destroyed by the greatest loss of his life, Edward heads farther west than ever boy. Not looking for way to bring back of family but a way to cure the ache in his soul. But will this cure be a new science, or the girl who teaches it to him?

It's a sunny day and the wind in the garden is stirring up the glorious smells of primroses, peonies, dahlia flowers and even the smell of fresh summer grass. It has been raining for so long that I have almost forgotten just how much the garden smells like happiness. Even though the wind has now kicked up and is blowing the petals loose from the body of the flowers, it's still beautiful to me. To say that I love this place is an understatement of momentous proportions. This is the once place in all of my home that I feel truly at peace. I love the smell of the flowers and a part of me loves their fragility and unyielding strength. These flowers bloom no matter what happens, rain or shine, snow or drought, these flowers in this patch of earth beat the odds at every turn. They bend to the wind but never break, they follow the sun but don't depend on it alone. They provide beauty in a place that is desolate and dead for miles around on a regular day. But it seems that we have been blessed by these flowers, that _I_ have been blessed by these flowers. If they can find a way to bloom no matter the situation and to stay strong, then surely the same is also true of me.

But when I look down at my legs as I sit in this chair, I feel myself filled with doubt. This disease that wracks my body will not kill me and for that I am eternally grateful to whatever god watches over the lives of us puny humans. But it has done its devious work in other ways. I am wracked by constant pain, and my joints are weak. On a good day I can walk maybe one hundred and fifty feet and that will be the farthest I walk for at least a day and a half. Today in fact I've only walked twenty five feet and I nearly fell from the pain that shot up my spine to my skull like lightening dancing up a metal pole. I am confined to this wheelchair when I am not in my house and because of that I rarely leave my home. I will go to the garden and sit, smell the flowers and go to the doctor but I do not go anywhere for recreation as it is too stressful on my body and the chance of injury is so high that I cannot stand on my own. Someone is always there to hold me up if I do not have my cane and if I do have it, the person is never very far.

That person is my butler. I hate that word because he is no butler. He is family, he couldn't be more family unless we shared DNA but at far as I am concerned he is my blood. His name is Roland Geiss. He is three years older than me at the age of twenty four. His family has served mine for the last one hundred years and he and I grew up together. When my disease first started he was the one who was by my side to keep me from falling or to pick me up when I did. He iced my swollen and painful joints, he wrapped them in pressure bandages and made sure my bed was as comfortable as possible. He did everything for me from cooking to running my bath-although he did not help me bathe, he wouldn't stand for that impropriety- but when I was wrapped in a towel in the tub, he would scoop me up then politely turn his back as I dried and dressed. He carried me up the stairs to my bedroom, he drove me to my doctor's appointments and he pushed my wheelchair. He also never let me complain to him about me being a burden.

He wouldn't stand for it is the real truth. If I even started saying anything about wishing I was normal so that he wouldn't have to demean himself to carrying me he would quickly rap me on the back of the head, not with any real force but to show his annoyance and he would assure me that I was no burden. Not only was it his job to take care of me but it was also his pleasure and he couldn't think of anything else he wanted to do. But I could, and often do, think of things that I would love for him to do. Like leave and find a woman, start a family away from me-the cripple-and have a joyful life. Whenever I call myself a cripple is when I truly draw his ire. He never has and I know he never will, stand or me calling myself a cripple. He doesn't rap my head then. What he does is far worse. He gets down on his knees, looks me dead in the eye and says nothing. His forest green eyes do all the talking for him. It sincerely pains him when I call myself a cripple and I can't to see that pain and know it's my fault so I keep those thoughts to myself.

Roland walks out of the house and is carrying a silver tray with two cups on it and small tea pot. I can smell the fruity aroma from where I sit thirty feet away. He brews my tea strong with a lot of sugar because he knows I love the fruity flavor to be as strong as possible and as sweet as I can get it. He says it tastes disgusting, or at least he used to. Now he just drinks a bears the flavor. But he makes the best faces and it's hard not to laugh and spill my drink. The tea has other properties in it, a natural pain reliever and muscle relaxer, it doesn't help much but just the act of drinking it alone is relaxing enough to help easy some of my sore muscles. And it was because of the relaxing effect of the tea that I asked Roland to take me into town. He looks at me with surprise evident on his face.

"You're feeling well enough?" I don't want to get his hopes up, I feel as bad as I normally do but for some reason I really want to go into town.

"I just have a good feeling," I tell him. "Let's go to the book store. We haven't been in ages and I miss Old Maggs and the smell of the books. Plus she always gives me a really good deal," I smile. He sighs and shakes his head at me. Old Maggs is a bit of a geriatric old woman who loves her books more than most people. She has more love for books than she does for most people and her massive cat that roams the store like a lion. But she likes me well enough and is always willing to give me a fair price on anything without me really needing to needle or haggle with her. But considering I always buy in copious amounts, she's making money regardless of how much of a deal she gives me. "Don't worry, I won't push myself. I'll stay in my chair." I promise him. "I just really want to go to the book store, look I even have a list!" I pull a rolled up piece of paper from my lap. It has thirteen tittles on it, all of them I know for a fact Old Maggs will have. Roland sighs and agrees to take me and puts the tea and the tray away as I wait in the garden.

When he returns he pushes my wheelchair to the side of driveway and gets the car and pulls up next to me. He helps me stumble into the passenger's side and then folds my chair, putting it in the backseat and we are off in moment.

The drive to town isn't a long one at all. We live surprisingly close for how quiet it is at my home. I always expected it to be louder when I was growing up because I could see the skyline from my bedroom but no, it was always silent. I guess that's why my parents built the house where they did. It was close enough to town that they wouldn't have to travel far but they had the seclusion necessary to perform their experiments.

My parents were alchemists, at least that's what people told me. I remember watching their "alchemy" and it looked nothing like alchemy to me. Sure it worked the same way but it just looked different. I've seen people from Amestris perform alchemy, I had a doctor in Amestris a few years ago who had been an alchemist and what he did looked quite different from what my parents performed. For starters there were different circles. Maybe the only thing that was the same was the fact they used circles at all. My parents' circles had been painfully detailed and filled with runes and symbols that to this day still make no sense to me. That is one reason I went to Old Maggs book store so often. She has a great stock of old and almost impossible to find books that explain what my parents were practicing, at least in part. But they weren't written in my language so I spend more time translating them than I do actually reading their contents. But when I'm done, I tend to devour the contents and fill my journals and loose leaf paper with notes upon notes. Roland helps me translate and take notes, it's actually fun to do together.

We arrive at the store in no time and Roland in wheeling me inside and goes to chat up Old Maggs. I think she has a thing for him. I can't say I blame her, he is a very handsome man. He's tall, six-foot-two and broad of shoulder. Not overly broad mind you, he doesn't look like a meathead or anything like that. His shoulders and chest are the perfect size to make you feel protected when he holds you to him. He has a narrow waist and long legs and he is toned everywhere. To be honest, his upper body is very defined and puts many men to shame in seconds. I think he knows it because he has a sense about him when he's shirtless on the rare occasions we go to the beach. He knows he looks good and isn't afraid of it. His hair is the color of a moonless night and falls in gently waving sheets down his shoulder blades. But he doesn't wear it loose. About six inches from the end of his hair he wear a blue ribbon, one of the first things I ever transmuted and the rest of his hair hangs beneath it. His eyes are the color of an ancient forest, the kid of green that hides all of kinds of mysteries. His eyes are one of my favorite things about him. That and his voice. He could talk the average woman into anything. It's like honey on velvet and wrapped in a lullaby being kissed by the moon. If he read me a dictionary I'd remember everything inside it.

Old Maggs' giant cat appeared from behind one of the book cases. His eyes were mismatched, the left a bright emerald and the right a deep hazel. He has a very funny meow, it's deep and warbles like he's singing. Most people think it's an ugly sound but I love it. As he hops gingerly into my lap and curls up I stroked his incredibly fluffy head and elicit a few of his funny singing mews before wheeling myself up and down the aisles looking for the books on my list.

When I come to the last book on the list, I find it easily enough. The problem is that it's on the very top shelf of a ten foot tall book case and there is no way in the world I'm going to reach it. I lean around the edge of the corner and see that Roland is on the other side of the store. I can barely see his back and really don't want to bother him, he seems to really be enjoying his conversation and I don't blame him because Old Maggs is a funny woman. I promised Roland that I wouldn't stand and stress myself but I really want to get that book. I look around the other corner-normally Old Maggs leaves a grabber around so shorter customers can reach the books on the higher shelves but I have no luck today, the grabber isn't there. But there is a man sitting on the floor with a book open in his lap.

"Uhm, excuse me, sir? I'm sorry to bother you but there's a book that I can't reach, would you mind grabbing it for me?" I use my most polite voice, which according to Roland, isn't different from my normal voice at all. The man closes the book without responding to me and stands with a soft grunt. He puts his weight on his feet oddly, it's easy for me to notice since I too hold my weight on my feet in a non-traditional manner. It looks like he's walking away though because when he stands, he never turns around. But as I decide to take the risk and stand, he sways towards me and I point to the book. He grabs it and hands it to me before suddenly collapsing on the ground. I scream for Roland and he comes running.

"I-I don't know what just happened! He grabbed a book for me and then he just fell!" I am panicking as Roland leans down and checks the man's pulse.

"It's weak but he still has a pulse. We need to get him to a hospital." The man grows and mumbles weakly.

"No hospital," he says weakly over and over until I tell Roland that we can't just leave him here and since he doesn't want to go to the hospital I talk Roland into putting the man in our car so we can take him to our home and nurse him. The man looks horrible and I will not stand by and just let him die. Even if he's only done me a small kindness, something that wouldn't matte to anyone else, it matters to me. Most people ignore me because of my chair or stare at me as if I'm a circus freak show. This man didn't look at me at all, but he also didn't ignore me and that stirred an odd feeling in my heart and my stomach. I will not leave him to rot.

My wheelchair goes in the trunk of the car and I sit in the back seat with the unconscious man's head in my lap to hold him steady and keep Roland appraised of his situation. He speeds to the house. Roland is one of the best doctors in the entire town, maybe even on this side of the hemisphere. He can fix this man, I know he can.

I look down at the man's face and notice it's turned gray and ashen as if he is in great pain. He has long golden hair in a ponytail and his hair spills down my legs like a golden curtain and sweat plasters his bangs to his forehead. He is panting and every few seconds, his eyes open up and I can see that they are the same gold as his hair, but dim and dark. Yet even like this, his eyes are beautiful. I see his lips part and I lean down to hear him.

"Winry…" he whimpers. "Winry…"


	2. Chapter 2

Today is the third day that our blond visitor has been with us and he is still unconscious. He hasn't woken but for a few seconds when the fever gets very high and he keeps mumbling the same name over and over: Winry. I think this Winry may be dead, I cannot think of any other reason he would say her name so sadly and desperately.

The doctor is leaving, he has given Roland a large vial of odd smelling fluid. He told him to dip a rag in it then put the rag in our visitor's mouth. Even if he doesn't wake up, he will suck it and it will sustain him and help him fight whatever illness he is battling. I don't think he wants to beat it though. He's frail and I don't think he has eaten in a very long time. There's an ashen pallor to his face and the bags under his eyes are the color of coal. I feel bad that all I can do is clean the sweat from his face and help administer the medication the doctor has left.

"Still asleep, huh?" Roland is asking from the doorway. I turn and look at him sadly. I really am worried this man is going to die in this bed if the fever doesn't break soon. The only spot of color on his face that makes him look alive is the strip of red across his nose and cheeks, the sign of the fever's relentless assault against his body. "Y'know, you parents always said the best way to break a fever is to sweat it out. So maybe that's what he needs, a good sweat." He walks into the room and into the bathroom that is in the back and starts the shower. Within minutes the steam is pouring out of the open doorway and into the bed room, frizzing my hair and curling it around my face. When he walks out I move my wheelchair aside as he lifts the blond from the bed and puts him over his shoulder and walks to the bathroom. I follow and see him put him in the basin of the tub directly under the hot spray from the shower head.

Roland has me close the door and he angles the shower down onto his head.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" I'm sweating and pull my shirt away from my collar bone where it is currently attempting to plaster itself and look in confused apprehension at the tub. What if this just makes the fever worse or what if he overheats and his organs start to cook? What if he sweats so much we can't rehydrate him and he dies in the tub? I open my mouth to voice my concerns when a loud and angry groan comes from the tub and my heart skips.

He's waking up! His face is flush from the heat but it is also less grey, he looks alive for the first time in three days! Roland looks at me with a satisfied smile and turns the water off.

"Why am I wet?" The man asks and pulls himself into a sitting position. He's not wet, he's positively soaked through. "Why is it so hot? Where am I?" He looks around. It must be confusing for him to wake up in a tub with hot water pouring over your head in a strange house and to be met by the faces of a butler and a girl in a wheelchair who you are certain you have never met in your entire life.

"Sorry about the shower friend," Roland hands him a towel. "You collapsed in a bookstore. We wanted to take you to a hospital but you said no so we brought you home and nursed you back to health."

"Trying to drown me is your idea of nursing me back to health?" The tone in his voice is drenched in annoyance and he rubs his face and hair vigorously with the towel and allows Roland to help him out of the tub.

"You had a fever that wouldn't break," I chime in. "Roland suggested we help you sweat it out. You've been unconscious for three days." The look of disbelief would be almost funny if I wasn't certain we hadn't saved him from death. After all, when people go unconscious for days on end, there normally is no way to bring them back and that's something I know for a fact.

"Well…thank you," he says after a pause and looks at his clothes. I roll out of the bathroom and bring him a set of clothes that Roland had put in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. They looked to be exactly the right size. When I bring them back in Roland has our guest seated on the toilet lid and I come in right in the middle of the conversation. As I hand the clothes over, I learn that his name is Edward Elric, that he's from another country, Amestris, from a little town named Resembool. Apparently he left after the death of his wife and children and had gotten sick at some point along the way. He doesn't remember passing out in Old Maggs' bookstore, he doesn't remember even going to the store. But he's very grateful we took him home and nursed him.

"I just have this thing about hospitals," he says and I don't press. I hate hospitals. After spending so much time in them and dealing with incompetent doctors I have tried to stay as far from hospitals as possible. I even hate going to the doctor, even if it is only once a month. It is irritating to say that absolute least.

He thanks me for the clothes and asks my name.

"Ashleigh. Ashleigh Rothstein." I received a small smile and left the room with Roland so that Edward could change. When he was dressed he came out and told us that he would be leaving soon, as he doesn't want to impose on us. Roland laughs.

"Impose? Please it's fine. And it's cheaper than any hotel you'll find. Please stay with us a while." He flashes his most winning smile and Edward can't help but agree and he goes back to his room as Roland sets out to make dinner.


End file.
